Survival
by arielrich
Summary: Driven to drinking after her fateful break up Bulma makes a drunken decision that is to change her life forever. Now, lost, alone and confused, what awaits our ill-fated heroine in the darkness of space? Love? Longing? Or something far more sinister? A
1. Prologue

This is an AU fic set immediately after the end of DragonBall. The main coupling will be Vegeta and Bulma but in an attempt to strive for something a little more realistic than your average 'straight-from-Earth-and-into-Vegeta's-arms' fic there may be slight twists and turns along the way. Also this will be dark, at times very much so. Be warned in advance that my vision of this unknown universe is not a pleasant one. If you've no problems with that then, please, follow me as we explore a completely different world where love may still blossom… Or perhaps it may not.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DragonBall. If I did the main character would be Vegeta and Goku would be his bitch.

**Survival**

**Prologue**

_By Ariel_

You couldn't even imagine this pain. A parasitic self loathing that boils within, destroying everything - heart, soul, mind - from the inside out. Spreading like a cancer and rotting all it touches with lecherous fingers, fuelled by hate, pity and fear, until there's simply nothing left.

Can a soul, any soul, possibly recover?

Would they _want_ to?

I want to believe someday it will end. I want to believe I'll wake up and this will all be some horrendous idea of a joke, a nightmare sent from the very devil himself. I want to believe smiling or the simple concept of happiness is still within reach. I want believe… and hope and dream and pray and smile and dance and love. I want to. But I can't.

Is this coward's way, this pathetic, broken, obtuse move, really my only option?

The real question is: do I even have to ask.

My name is Bulma Briefs and inside I'm already dead.


	2. Chapter 1: Into the abyss

**Disclaimer:** You know I don't… But if I did every single cent I'd made would go into making a machine that would destroy the very fabric of reality and pull the imaginary world – or one imaginary world in particular – into this one.

**Survival**

**Chapter 1: Into the abyss**

_By Ariel_

"Babe, you ready yet?"

"No, Yumcha. For the thousandth time I'm not and the more you ask the longer I'll take. Got it?"

Yumcha grumbled something sounding remarkably like a curse and rolled onto his stomach, breathing in her left over scent and trying to ignore the fact that he'd been waiting for over an hour while she did God knew what in her private en suite. And to what effect? Heaven knew she was a stunning sight to behold even at four in the morning, sleep deprived and puffy eyed. Hell, she was practically the 8th wonder of the world. Beauty, brains and a bitching personality; Bulma Briefs had it all.

"Yumcha, you'd better not be lying down and creasing you're suit or you'll find yourself flying solo tonight."

He jumped from the bed quick as a fox, furiously patting down his rumpled attire.

Undeniably beautiful, but sometimes she could be a real-

"And don't you dare go drinking too much and making a fool out of yourself. Goku and Chichi promised to make an appearance and the last thing I need is you getting drunk and challenging him to a duel we both know you've got no chance of winning. Or worse. You know Chi Chi's had it out for me ever since that one time when I mentioned, and off hand I might add, that I found Goku kinda, sorta, in-a-friend-kind-of-way, hot. These days it's like she's got an 'Is-Yumcha-Flirting-With-Someone-Other-Than-Bulma' radar. You make googly eyes at absolutely anyone, even a male ice sculpture, and she's right next to me, lickety split, with a sharp tongue and an ever sharper grin. Anyone can see that she jumps on any chance to humiliate me with an evil and, if you ask me, slightly insane relish so, please, don't make it any easier for her. I'd rather get through this night with my reputation unscathed. God knows I couldn't put up with another night of 'Yumcha was staring so far down that waitresses top he was practically wearing it!' and 'I just saw your boyfriend kissing your secretary. I'm _so _Sorry.'."

"I already told you," Yumcha whined, playing his usually blame-it-on-someone-else card. "We were under mistletoe and it was _her_ suggestion. What did you expect me to do?"

"Oh, I don't know, tell her you were in a very happy relationship and you didn't think it appropriate? Tell her she wasn't your type? Tell her she was a stupid whore as useless at flirting as she was at typing, making a decent cup of coffee or just about anything her job actually required? Then again, I suppose when you've had that much to drink comebacks so exceedingly obvious just don't come to mind. Perhaps that's also why you failed to notice that what you were actually standing under was a bunch of _yellow roses_, which, strangely enough, look absolutely nothing likemistletoe."

"What's-her-name practically forced herself on me, Bulma! Jeez, it's not like I enjoyed it or anything. I don't even remember it, for Chrissake! What's the harm in a one small and meaningless kiss?"

"Small and meaningless were neither of the choice words Chi Chi used to describe it."

"Well, then it looks like I wasn't the only one who had too much to drink that night."

The silence pervading the room was deafening.

"Jesus," he added, sure, in his arrogance and idiocy, Bulma couldn't hear. "I kiss Jenny and the next thing you know I'm Prime Enemy Number One. And what drove me to it? Is it any wonder I drink with such a huge bitch of a girlfriend?"

The door slammed open, rebounding off the wall and leaving a significant dint in its wake.

"How dare you!" Bulma seethed, tendrils of her immaculate up do becoming unbound in the wake of her immense fury. "You, who can never quite keep your eyes off the waitresses breasts on our so called 'romantic evenings', which I _always _pay for! You, who will feel up or snog anyone and anything then casually pass it off as '_No big deal'_! You, who's more than happy to mooch of your girlfriend while you live it up in the lap of luxury and treat me with none of the respect, love or even kindness that I deserve. I'm a bitch, am I? Well, fuck Yumcha, what the hell does that make you?!"

"All the shit I have to put up with Bulma, I swear to God-"

"_You_ have to put up with?!" Bulma retorted, her anger swelling past the point of no return. "What the _fuck_ Yumcha? You are possibly, probably, the worse boyfriend on the face of this planet. And, what's more, you're not much of a human being either. And what does that make me for staying with you, for loving you?! Not a bitch, but certainly stupid. Well no more. No longer will I wait for you to make a commitment you're incapable of making. No longer will I put up with your roving eye or '_meaningless trysts'_. Thank you, Yumcha, for finally jarring me to my senses. Now get the fuck out of my house and out of my life!"

And seeing the determination in her eyes and the final note in her voice he did just that. But not adding one final, cutting remark.

"You'll end up alone! Mark my words, Bulma, no one in their right mind would want such a useless, ugly, pathetic bitch! Not even your money is worth all this!"

And with that he stormed out of the room and, as it so happened, her life forever.

Bulma collapsed onto her bed, silently sobbing for all the wasted years and a heart so brutally shattered.

"Stupid head!" she muttered, tossing down another shot of vodka. " S'all is fault! All he 'ad to do was love me. Issat really so much ta ask?"

"I'm sure I don't know Miss Briefs," Bulma's harassed looking secretary (her third since firing Jenny) answered, eager to find an exit to the conversation, post haste. Her boss, renowned for her short fuse and the even shorter working span of her employees, was the last person she wanted to discuss heartbreak with. Hell, she was the last person she wanted to discuss anything with. One wrong word and she was sure to be the latest in a series of secretaries sent to the unemployment line by the volatile blue head.

"Thass right!" Bulma muttered her abuse of alcohol clear on her breath and in her voice. "'Cause I'm beautiful and sexy and hot an he's jus a Dumby McDumb Head!"

"Right. Of course Miss Briefs. You've got it all."

"Don't ya know it, Sydney."

"Sandy, maam."

"What?"

"It's Sandy, maam. My name. Sandy Winchester."

"Thass what I said, Stacy."

"Of course, maam."

"And if that dumbass can' even see what he's got then he's more a stupid head than he looks. And thass sayin' somethin'."

Bulma laughed drunkenly and Sandy managed a very forced smile.

"The problem is Sally," she began, throwing back yet another shot of vodka. "That men jus can't keep it in their pants. They're all jus walking penisesses."

The blue haired beauty began to giggle hysterically and Sandy, mumbling a vacant agreement, closed her eyes, preying for an out to this less-than-comfortable confrontation.

"Penissss," she slurred, in between giggles. "Isn't that a funny word? Penis, penis, penis-"

She stopped suddenly, her face brightening as she waved to a tall and distant figure at the other side of the room. Sandy took the opportunity to quickly and swiftly excuse herself from her boss' presence, a relieved smile encompassing her features.

Her long time friend, who she'd once commented on as being quite the looker, trotted over to the dark corner currently occupied by one very drunk blue haired lady.

"Hiya Bulma, how are you?"

"As fine as a pie with a fish in its eye," she giggled, throwing down another shot of the clear, mind dulling liquor.

"Ok," Goku said slowly, his confusion apparent. "You smell kinda funny Bulma. Are you alright?"

"Oh I'm juss fine," she slurred, attempting to stand and stumbling. Goku caught her, his nose crumbling as the harsh and ugly smell of alcohol accosted his delicate senses.

"Hey, where'd this wall come from!?" she muttered, pushing herself from his arms and she tried, and failed, to right herself. Goku caught her again, an unaccustomed scowl gracing his normally unsullied features.

"Are you sure you're alright? You're acting really funny Bulma."

"I'm acting funny? Remember that time when we were just kids and we made Oolong join our quest and he really didn't wanna and he kept tryin to run away and I gave him those pills and every time he would leave we'd call out and make him poop hisself?! _That _was funny. Oh, and remember that other time-"

"Bulma," Goku interrupted, clearly concerned. "I'm going to take you to Yumcha now so he can look after you and make sure you're alright. Do you know where he is?"

The transformation was instant. Bulma's eyes brimmed with tears and she threw herself into her best friend's arms.

"I-I d-d-d-d-dumped him! He doesn't love me, Goku. N-n-n-n-no-one loves me!"

Goku stoked her hair, comforting his best friend as she wailed drunkenly into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry Bulma but I'm really worried about you. You're acting so strange. I think you should see a doctor. How about I take you to your bed and find someone to help."

"No," she sniffled. "I'm fine, Goku. Just a little tipsy. 'Sides, I'm not gonna let him wreck this night. I'm gonna have fun!"

"Bulma, that's not a good idea. I'm taking you upstairs."

But she pulled away; her tear-streaked face reverted, almost instantly, to drunken anger.

"My head is clear, _Goku_. And all that I really wanna do now is have fun and forget Mister Stupid-tiny-penis-and-massive-ego ever existed. And if you don't wanna join in then poo poo to you!"

And with that Bulma turned and wandered into the night, unknowingly walking into a situation that was to change her life forever.

"Wow, look at all the pretty lights!" Bulma exclaimed as she stumbled through the garden, laughing manically when she tripped and went sprawling to the ground. She had been wandering for hours now, running on alcohol, dulled sadness and suppressed anger like a woman possessed.

She pushed herself from the ground and grinned like a mischievous child when she spotted, through blurred eyesight, her father's current toy, a large dome-like invention she had hence been expressly forbidden to touch. Not used to her father's unaccustomed seriousness she had, with little argument or complaint, obeyed his wishes. Until now.

Filled with a sense of childlike thrill she haphazardly ran towards the dome, smiling cheekily all the way. No longer would she be suppressed by any man. This was her life to live, her mistakes to make, and if she wanted to play with her father's gadget or dump her stupid, weak, unfaithful boyfriend then that was exactly what she was going to do. To hell with the consequences!

She thumbed open the hidden controls, as she'd seen her father do a thousand times, suppressing a sigh at the genius of workmanship that had gone into the security system alone. Her fingers eagerly caressed the external control panel, careful not to set off the buried alarm that was sure to blare should she enter the wrong combination. From inside her bra she freed a small blue capsule and threw it to the ground, barely even flinching as it opened loudly at her feet to reveal a small and chaotic clutter of emergency items she always kept close. She pawed through, grabbing a sonic screwdriver, her own pet project, a small wrench and lazar cutter from the jumbled mess. Drunk or not, within ten minutes of flying fingers and near frantic rerouting, the passage to the dark internal cavern of the strange dome lay revealed.

A triumphant grin apparent, Bulma returned her tools, placed her emergency capsule in its former home and crept eagerly inside.

Despite its dominating appearance from the outside the dome was, in reality, quite cramped (at least by the heiress's standards). Following a short, metallic passageway brought her to the main room. Directly opposite a large, currently blank screen took up most of the wall. Before it stood the machine's controls. Several blinking lights indicated it was currently awaiting command. Had Bulma had all her wits about her she would have quickly realized, proud, shocked and profoundly amazed, exactly what it was her father had been working on all those long hours. But she didn't. And, as her delicate hands ran almost caressingly over the control board, she sighed, simply astounded by the sheer complexity and beauty of design. A door to the left caught her attention and she wandered over, struck for a loop when she discovered a small bedroom, equipped with even smaller en suite. In her drunken state she felt like Alice, just wandered down the rabbit hole only to discover a strange, disjointed world so very different, and yet similar, to her own.

She ambled back into the control room, taking a seat before the strange, glowing panel as fatigue took hold of her. It was so pretty in here, so calm, that she felt like staying forever. Just sitting and staring, overcome by peace. Her fingers ran delicately over the flashing symbols, her blurry eyes barely able to make out the words written beneath them. She would sleep here, here in this place of rest where no one would hurt her, or judge her, or push her down. She would sleep the sleep of the innocent, the peaceful sleep of the unencumbered, unshackled and unreserved. But first, first she would push just one button. Push just one to let the machine know, let the world know, that she was Bulma Briefs and she was here and she mattered. Just the one and then rest.

And that's exactly what she did. Softly pushing a small glowing rectangle before falling almost instantly into the very sleep she had hoped for. Completely unaware that she had just done something, one small, seemingly insignificant action, that was to change her life forever.

Bulma tried to open her eyes but, as nausea swept over her, she quickly changed tactics. Groaning, she rolled onto her back, trying to ignore the pounding migraine that battered her senses. Struggling desperately to grasp even a semblance of coherent thought, it took her almost ten minutes before she realized that, wherever she had ended up, it wasn't her bedroom. The floor was cold and hard and distinctly uncomfortable and it took another ten to appreciate that as drunk as she was and as 'available' as she would inevitable have been she could now be in a pretty sticky situation. This time she forced her eyes open dreading, but faintly expecting, to see an unfamiliar and inevitably exposed male body somewhere in the vicinity. She was indescribably relived when met with no such sight. And yet she had absolutely no idea where she was, and that was worrying to say the least. The fact that her surroundings looked like something stolen from a cheap science fiction set did nothing to calm her nerves. There was no where on her family's property that even somewhat resembled this place. She was undeniably in someone else's house. Somehow who was perhaps just a little weird? Why on Earth did she put herself in these situations?!

Attempting to sit a wave of fierce nausea rocked her, forcing her back to the ground. Her head pounding, back soar and clothes uncomfortable tight she decided to throw caution to the wind. She needed her own bed, a few sleeping bills and a couple hours undisturbed sleep pronto.

"Hello," she called, squinting in pain at the effect her own voice had on her frayed senses. Lowering her voice a few octaves she muttered "I'm not exactly sure where I am but if you could please help me home I'd very much appreciate it."

Met with only silence her temperature began to boil.

"Listen, buddy. I know a life time of television servitude doesn't exactly give you the Casanova-esque conversation skills but it's customary to at least offer small talk to someone you've just fucked!"

But still she was met with no response. The continuing silence began to irritate her.

"Look," she reasoned, a hint of her annoyance creeping into her voice. "All I want to do is go home and go to bed so, if you know what's good for you you'll start doing what I want and you'll start doing it now."

The silence was deafening.

"HELLO!!" she screamed, overcome by exhaustion and frustration. "COULD I GET A FUCKING BRAKE FOR ONCE IN MY FUCKING LIFE!!"

Beginning to weep Bulma pushed herself up onto the chair by the mock control panel, trying to ignore the pounding in her head, and was immediately silenced by what she saw. It had not occurred to Bulma, genius she was, that, while her body insisted it was well past sunrise, her view from the floor clearly displayed a star spotted sky. Looking out the window that quandary, along with her own question about her current location, was solved. She watched, shocked, dismayed and frightened, as innumerable planets, stars and galaxies went whizzing by.

Battling the most extreme information overload of her life Bulma fainted for the second time that day.

By the time she awoke her headache was gone but her fear was not. Thoughts raced through her mind a million miles an hour and she found herself not in the least relived to find her suspicions way off track. As it so happened, reality was sometimes far worse than your very worst imaginings.

Ignoring the dull throbbing in her head she quickly made a mental note of her immediate priorities.

One: find a working toilet (assuming such a thing here).

Two: find some pain killers.

Three: figure out exactly where here was.

And from there the rest would follow, or so she hoped.

After a few minutes of incoherent mumbling and stumbling her first need was sated. As it so happened this place not only offered toilets but a working shower, basin and a full medicine cabinet where her second need was swiftly dealt with. Popping a few aspirin, along with a drug her father had specifically developed for hang overs that she'd found in her personal capsule supply, she headed back to the relative comfort of what she had come to think of as the cock pit.

Settling into the pilot's seat she scrutinized the panel before her, along with several post it notes taped on the controls, an instruction manual of sorts, explaining their function. It became almost immediately apparent where she was. This was her father's secret invention, his pride and joy and apparently, during her drunken rampage, she had decided to take it for a spin. A bolt of excitement whispered down her spine. This was space, the final frontier, and Bulma Briefs was, officially, Earth's first cosmonaut. What greater way to get over a messy break up than by exploring new horizons? Leaning new things? Perhaps even meeting new species'? Bulma's unrelenting sense of adventure overwhelmed her. This may be the very thing she so desperately needed. If only she could figure out how the ship worked…

She had been staring at the control board, trying to pick a coherent thought from her rampant mind, for almost half an hour when a flashing red button to the left caught her eye. The words '**Fuel Gauge**'sent an instant chill down her spine.

Surely it couldn't mean what she thought it meant. No one was _that_ unlucky.

On closer inspection a related panel, featuring a wavering arrow creeping slowly into the red, did nothing to allay her fears.

One thing was clear. She needed some time to think and that meant shutting what seemed less of a blessing and more of a curse down. And soon!

Her eyes swept over the controls at a more frenzied pace, desperately sifting through a million seemingly useless buttons, knobs and handles for a kill switch. She found six that looked hopeful. Problem was the wrong one could potentially kill her.

Vent oxygen? Increase Gravity? Shut down life support systems? No thanks.

With her life at stake, she didn't feel like gambling.

Maybe her father had left something, anything, that would help. Something like a note that said 'For emergency shut down press here or 'When everything seems to have gone to hell pull lever there' or perhaps even "If drunken daughter goes on a bender, breaks into ship and takes off for places unknown turning this knob will instantly put it all back to normal'. Anything to help her get out of this predicament and back home.

She fumbled through his left over notes scattered around the cock pit floor but, short of reading through every single chicken scratch sermon in its entirety, there seemed to be nothing of use. And the needle kept wavering closer and closer into the red. She needed a solution and she needed one now.

Gathering up all the courage she possessed, along with a considerable amount she didn't, she positioned her thumb over a large purple button, the largest, and closest to the pilots chair and, by her reasoning, the only logical choice. Taking a deep breath, closing her eyes and preying, if the worst should happen, for a quick death she pressed down.

And nothing happened… at least for a moment. Until suddenly the engine made a mechanical click, an utterly non dramatic sound, and Bulma was thrown four meters from her chair and into a wall. This time, apart from the double vision and a renewed ache in her head, she managed to avoid fainting. But only barely.

Rubbing her bruised skull she stumbled back into the pilot's chair where a previously blank screen was now lit up with the semi comforting message "Shut down process complete. Awaiting further instructions."

Now she had time to think… But all she really wanted was bathe then sleep. And why not? With nothing but space to the left, right and centre of her all she had was time. Or so she thought.

Laying down, barely half an hour later, how she could have known that she was about to have the last peaceful inartificial slumber of her life? That life as she knew it, along with every inch of her innocent, courage and hope, was soon to come to a climatic, wrenching and brutally final end?

Silently plunging into the abyss, Bulma slept the sleep of the dead.


	3. Chapter 2: Monster's den

**IMPORTANT A/N – **This scene is quite dark. I tried to portray, as realistically as possible, how Bulma would be received aboard a ship of ruthless murderers. Suffice to say it doesn't end well. Be warned that this chapter, along with this entire story, is not for the faint of heart.

Also, motivation inspiration. So, if you want new chapters, I'm going to need some reviews… Pretty please.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Dragonball or Dragonball Z, which, it should be noted, I don't, I'd make sure all the Saiyans shirts AND pants were ripped to tatters in the first few minutes of battle. Full frontal nudity, OH YEAH!

**Survival**

**Chapter 2: Monster's Den**

_By Ariel_

Swimming from half remembered dreams of childhood adventure Bulma was awoken by a loud braying from the cock pit. Taking a second to orientate herself she staggered from the bedroom and was chilled by what awaited her in the isolated cock pit.

Wiped of its former niceties the main screen flashed a single warning in ominous red letters.

"Ship caught in tractor beam. Prepare to be boarded. Use extreme caution," it brayed frantically.

Bulma didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It seemed like just when things couldn't get any worse something new would arise to completely redefine her definition of bad. A part of her remained sure this had to be someone sick idea of a joke. One played in very bad taste. The rest of her knew better.

Retreating into the bedroom she frantically prepared herself for the worst.

It seemed obvious, if not a little a-typical, that these weren't your average ET-esque just-want-to-be-your-friends aliens. What need was there for use of a tractor beam when you're traveling the universe spreading intergalactic peace and love?! Being a scientist, and closet geek, Bulma had seen enough low grade science fiction to know only one kind of being made a move without any kind of communication or negotiation: the hostile kind.

So, what were her options?

One: hope she was wrong despite that fact that all logic and rational thought suggested otherwise.

Two: hide and pray.

Three: fight.

She'd never been one to back down so the answer came naturally.

Throwing her emergency capsule to the ground she scrounged through the cluttered mess for something, anything, useful. A weapon. A bat. Hell, even a sturdy frying pan would do. Fortunately she was in luck. Gathering up an ancient laser pistol from her childhood wanderings along with a second, more practical outfit she hastily repacked her capsule. With little thought to style or grace she swiftly replaced her cocktail dress with a blue spandex training suit Yumcha had given her for 17th birthday. At the time it had seemed a thoughtless, selfish gift. Now she thanked God for giving her such a perverted lover. Should the situation come to blows this outfit would give her the litheness and mobility she would undoubtedly need.

Settling into a strategically sensible position, within reach of the bedroom door but out of view, Bulma awaited the inevitable.

Had she been as prepared as she'd thought perhaps things would have gone differently. But, as a loud crash signifying docking vibrated abrasively throughout the ship, she was knocked cold by the fact she'd entered a potentially lethal situation. How much of a chance did she really have against the ultimate unknown? Her blood ran cold.

Several braying alien warnings issued from outside. Unaware and unconcerned of their meaning Bulma apprehensively awaited the aggressive action sure to follow. She was not surprised when, barely a minute later, a loud explosion sounded from the entrance. The footsteps she heard mere seconds later, however, threw her off completely guard. How could someone break into something her father had designed, an indisputable genius and the best inventor on Earth, that swiftly? That _effortlessly_?! It didn't seem possible and yet whoever it was, _whatever_ it was, had done so and was currently making a beeline straight for her.

Intending to fight, intending to win, Bulma stood.

She stood, and she froze.

This was no science fiction. No joke. No dream. No illusion. No rules applied here and all stereotypes and clichés were meaningless. This was real. Completely unaltered for a less mature audience and unabashedly _horrifying_.

The disturbingly mammoth and monstrous being, seemingly stolen from her the nightmarish depths of her childhood imaginings, wasn't you're typical evil-but-eventually-undeniably-flawed-and-inevitably-defeated alien. This was new ground, the devil's ground. This was a nightmare. A horror. A monstrosity. A terror beyond all imaginable and reasonable, terror. And it was all _real. _Undeniably, repugnantly real.

"Zact met clhor?" it rasped, its hideous maw an atrocious spectacle of razor sharp fangs. It's long insectile tongue darted out, running over its cracked chops with sadistic intent.

This time the decision to faint was a conscious one.

And the world went blank.

"Zarbon, my dear, have we guests?" a disembodied voice from the blue creature's monocle-like device enquired.

"_A_ guest, sire."

"_And_ Zarbon…"

"A woman, sire. I'm not certain of her race but she resembles those hideous monkey boys, only her power level is revoltingly low. She barely even registered on the scouter. Shall I dispose of her?"

"No, Zarbon. Bring her to me. Let me judge this monkey woman for myself. And make sure she's unharmed, we wouldn't want her first impression of us to be a negative one."

"No sire. Or course not. I'll bring her to you right away."

Throwing the unconscious woman over his shoulder and leading Bulma to her dark fate Zarbon muttered:

"Poor creature, you'd have been better off dead."

Bulma would grow to agree.

"What have we here?" a sinister voice rasped from the shadows.

"The woman, sire," Zarbon replied, barely ten minutes later.

"You've harmed her, Zarbon. I expressly forbad you from causing her any unwarranted distress. Naughty boy, you've disobeyed me. You shall have to be punished."

"No sire," the cerulean creature confuted, a cool sweat breaking out on his brow at his Master's cruel implication. "I swear I've done her no harm. She fainted at that sight off me."

"At the sight of _you_, Zarbon?"

"Yes, sire. You warned me to be cautious and so I was in my reptilian form."

"Ah, then it was quite an understandable reaction."

The dark being laughed. It's humourless snicker sucking all warmth and joy from the room.

"Well then, let us see what hidden treasure we've found," it rasped. Gliding from the shadows a small, sleek creature of pink, purple and white greeted his second in command. Small in stature and sporting the innocent, almost doll-like complexion of a child Frieza's outward appearance betrayed his malicious core. Known throughout the galaxy as a tyrant among tyrants he was feared, revered and unchallenged as the strongest and most sadistic being in the universe. Renowned murderer of millions, he alone was responsible the most horrific massacres in recorded history, including several genocides executed, for the most part, on a whim. Now with Bulma in his sights the world seemed suddenly a much darker, more frightening place.

"No tail," he muttered, thoroughly scrutinizing her limp form. "But yes, Zarbon, she could almost be Saiyan."

"Indeed sir. Perhaps she had the tail removed at birth to disguise her true heritage."

"I said _almost _Saiyan, Zarbon. There was never a monkey as frail and pitiful as this. She's a mere imitation… and a poor one at that."

"Of course, sire. I quite agree. Shall I dispose of her now?"

"I don't believe I said anything about disposing of her Zarbon. I'm almost inclined to think you jealous of my diverted attention with your furious insistence of this creature's demise."

"N-no sir," the soldier stuttered, thrown off balance by the all too familiar and always unwanted attentions of his malicious Master. "I just thought, as you yourself declared her to be pitiful, you'd want rid of her."

"You thought wrong. Unlike you, Zarbon, I've taste enough to see this woman's appearance far excels that of the revolting whores Dodoria insist on heaping upon me. I've no intention of destroying such a precious gem. Have you equipped her with a translator?"

"Yes sire. I did so immediately after we talked."

"Well then, why don't you put yourself to use and wake her so we can be more formally _introduced_?"

"Of course sire."

"And try not to scare her into unconsciousness this time," he mocked.

"Yes sire," Zarbon grunted. Taking a small pouch from his uniform, the now petite and attractive green alien selected a tiny flask of purplish liquid. Placing the woman's body gently on the ground he titled her head back and poured the entire flash into her mouth. The reaction was immediate and severe.

Bulma sat bolt upright, eyes wide and horrible aware.

"Who are you?" she demanded, jumping from the floor and backing into the nearest corner, her stare fixed on Zarbon. "Where am I? Where have you taken me?"

"Hush little one," Frieza rasped. "Your questions will all be answered in due time."

Bulma's eyes darted to the rooms other occupant. She was set instantly ill at ease by his innocent appearance and confliction aura.

"Who are _you_?" she demanded.

"Now, now child. It's rude to insist the name of your host without even revealing your own."

"Rude?!" she seethed, throwing caution to the wind as anger overcame her. "_I'm_ Rude?! You have the audacity to… to _abduct _me and then lecture me in the finer matters of priority. How dare you! I demand you tell me who you are and what you're planning to do with me this very instant!"

Frieza's disturbing mirth froze Bulma to the core.

"And you would have had her killed Zarbon! Imagine the fun you would have denied me."

"_Excuse me_!" Bulma further fumed, ignoring the trepidation that brayed with frantic alarm within her. "There will be no _fun_. You will tell me where I am and who you are right now! I will not stand for this disrespect. I am the co-president of Capsule Corporation, the largest conglomerate Earth has ever seen, and I _will not_ be disrespected in this manner. I demand that you return me to my ship right this instant and-"

The death grip silenced her ultimatum.

"You seem to be under a false impression that I care who you are," Frieza snarled, his true persona coming to the fore. "I asked only out of courtesy but since you seem uninterested in conversing politely I'll be blunt. What you were means nothing here. All I see is a weak, pathetic creature whose only assets are physical. That _I _should respect _you _is a joke. What respect should the most powerful being in the universe show to a brainless, uncouth animal whom even a child could best. You are nothing and should act as such. Never again presume to address me in such a manner and learn your place or you might find what's left of your life cut miserably short."

Falling to the ground Bulma gasped for breath, desperate to fill her oxygen deprived lungs and silenced for perhaps the first time in her life.

"Take her to my room, Zarbon. She will serve as an excellent bed warmer."

"N-no," Bulma coughed, having raised herself enough to stare defiantly into the eyes of her capture.

"What did you say to me?"

"No," she replied, overcome by insolence and fierce pride. "I would rather die than be touched by a filthy, slimy, revolting-"

Unable to finish her sentence Bulma was sent flying into the wall, a boot to the stomach knocking from her breath and consciousness.

"Take her to the tanks, Zarbon." Frieza demanded, a malicious smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You were right; she's more Saiyan than I thought. So much fire and arrogance. Reminds me of a certain prince."

"Indeed Lord Frieza," Zarbon agreed.

"This will be fun."

Once again scooping up the woman's limb form, a sympathetic shudder ran down Zarbon's spine.

Swimming from a dream where she was endlessly falling Bulma's first thought was that she must be dead. Such infinite horror was surly un-survivable. Floating in a lake of aqua fluid, her entire body a veritable carnival of aches and pains, she was almost immediately convinced otherwise.

Uncertain how to cope with her current predicament Bulma's mind wandered as she watched amazed, enthralled and captivated, as every description of alien imaginable paraded before her, going about their daily business apparently unaware, or at the very least indifferent, to her floating form. Beings she could only assume to be doctors, their only similarity to Earth physicians or each other the familiar white lab coats that draped their form, flittered about checking random print outs, life signs and comparing notes. A stunning alien woman sporting beautiful purple skin and the most haunting green eyes nursed a sleeping infant. Tiny children giggled as they wove in between the tanks, shrilling with delight as they chased each other. And the soldiers, for they were surely warriors with such scars and frowns to match, lay within their own tanks healing. Housed within a technological dream Bulma's eyes shifted rapidly from scene to scene, her senses overcome. A dream or nightmare? Every time she reached a conclusion something new would come along and completely throw her off balance. A terrifying being of immense power who promised pain and anguish or a wonderful cacophony of inter-species harmony? Could one possible exist with the other. This world simply seemed too fine, too grand, to have housed that monster. Was perhaps the white demon and his abuse just a figment of an overworked mind? In a world where children danced, mothers nursed and soldiers healed everything finally seemed right. Or was the liquid that surrounded her, silently kitting together broken bones and healing wounds, both old and new, a form of the proverbial rose coloured glasses?

The arrival of a certain green man answered that and more.

And the curtain fell.

Bulma watched in dreadful fascination as the infant opened its mouth, endless rows of razor sharp fangs attacking its mother's breast with a ferocity and savageness both revolting and wholly primal. Golden blood trickled from the wound while the woman silently wept. The children weaving in between tanks squealed, not in joy but terror, as a grotesque being slithered after them. It fell upon one of the fallen, devouring her in a sea of blood, gore and silent screams. The team of doctors, confronted by a high ranking soldier sporting a small cut on his left cheek, callously ejected a dying man from a nearby tank, throwing his limp body against the wall as the barely injured being took his place.

This was no wonderland.

This was a nightmare.

Overcome by sudden, overbearing claustrophobia Bulma tried to shut her eyes, but couldn't. Tried to turn her head, but couldn't. Tried to scream, but couldn't.

And all the while the soldier of doom, second only to the devil himself, crept closer and closer.

He pressed a button on the control console and the tank began to drain. Bulma gasped for air, thudding to the ground as it expelled her. She clamped her eyes and mind shut to the world surrounding her.

Preying for death. Preying for life. Preying for freedom. Preying for anything, _anything_ but this.

"I expect you're feeling better?" the creature asked, breaking her concentration with his softly spoken, almost amiable words.

"You'll want to cover yourself," he added, passing her a towel, his gaze averted. "Showers are over there if you're interested. The tank can be a pretty disgusting experience first time around."

"I expect you'd know," Bulma rebutted, wrapping the towel tightly around her exposed form. "Being the expert in disgusting."

"Indeed," he muttered, ignoring her baited attempt at argument.

Bulma frowned, frustrated, annoyed and eager to vent.

"What's wrong with you?!" she yelled. "Too stupid to realize that was an insult. Or perhaps too scared to fight me?!"

"More like too tired," he replied, entirely nonplussed.

"Tired from what?! Murdering innocents? Raping children? Kidnapping woman?"

"From listening to you talk. Now, do you want the damn shower or not?"

"I would sooner die than be the delight of your perverted mind."

"I've no intention of watching woman."

"Why should I believe you? You obviously have no honour!"

"You will find honour to be very lacking within these walls. The sooner you come to terms with that the better. But I will not watch you woman, I've no interest in your exposed form."

"No interest?! What are you, gay?"

"Perhaps."

"Whatever, I'm still not showering in front of you."

Grabbing her by the arm, Zarbon dragged her over to the showers, shoving her prone body beneath the faucets. Bulma squealed as the numbingly cold water accosted her.

"Why you-"

"This may well be your last opportunity to feel clean," Zarbon interjected. "I don't expect you to thank me but, for the simple sake of your sanity, you should at least take some comfort from the simplicity of an unsullied body. After tonight you'll find that some dirt can be cleaned by no amount of scrubbing. As unhappy as this place may seem, take some solace from the fact that, for now, you mind and body remain your own."

Standing under the glacial water, Bulma caught a glimpse of the quiet sorrow in the creature's eyes.

And was horrified by it.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Apparently, Frieza did neither.

"What's going to happen to me?" she whispered, her fight and force simply and suddenly stolen.

"Its better you not know. Just revel in your cheerful memories, your innocence, and try, while you still can, to be happy."

"I don't understand any of this. Who _are_ you? Where _is_ this? _What's happening_?"

He sighed.

"I am Zarbon Oxyl. High prince of Oyxl-eke and second in command to Frieza, high commander of the galactic fleet of Colball. This is the supreme battleship of the fleet, the Icelatic, known by those who occupy it as the Icebox. Crewed by soldiers and slaves its halls are a veritable sea of lost souls of broken minds. And that's the way Frieza likes it as our purpose, seemingly our only purpose, is to rove the galaxy murdering, raping and destroying everything within our path. We honour the corrupt, spit on the just and pillage the innocent. Dreams, hope and love have no place here. And anyone who believes in these ideals is quickly and harshly, shown new things to live for; terrible things. Within these wall nothing good, sacred or just exists. Our only blessing is death. But even that always, _always_ come at a price."

"But I still don't understand!" Bulma declared. "Why would anyone, _anything_ want to live here?! Why would anyone want _this_?"

"Because we have no choice. Most of us are spoils of war, the so-called elite of our race and only remaining survivors of planets that choose very foolishly and ignorantly to defy Frieza. Or get on his nerves. And those of us who actually have homes to return to would never dream of doing so. We know that to run would mean the horrific murder of every single person we'd ever known or loved. Or perhaps our entire race, depending on Frieza's mood at the time. And all the while we'd be kept alive and allowed to continue, unharmed, in his service knowing that we were solely responsible the murders of so many. Waiting for the day when we slip up again and the full wrath of our past deeds is brought down upon us and, wishing only for death, we are once again _allowed_ to live.

Frieza rules by terror and we, every one of us, are terrified."

"So, when it comes down to it you're all cowards?! Too scared to fight? Too spineless to even try? I won't live like that! I refuse to!"

"You don't understand. Living on this ship destroys you from the inside out. It warps you, distorting your view entirely until your whole world is upside down, topsy turvy and completely unrecognizable. You come here intending to fight, tooth and nail, until the very last breath is stolen from your lungs and then you see things - unimaginable and hideous things - and the next thing you know you're so damaged that you'd kill your own father for one night's undisturbed rest.

In a heartbeat your world is an entirely different place.

And it's not just Frieza. It's this _ship_... It _breaks_ you."

"I'll never let it break me!" Bulma argued, ever defiant.

"Woman, what makes you think you have a _choice_? Now come, you're clean enough and I've got better things to do than lecture a useless weakling on the facts on life."

Unable to retort a million unpleasant thoughts swam through her cluttered mind. Bulma wrapped herself in another towel Zarbon passed her and followed the green man through the maze like halls of the 'Icebox'.

This whole situation seemed more and more absurd by the minute. Could that strange looking creature, the so-called strongest being in the universe, really be _that _bad? Sure, he was a proven sadist and more than slightly creepy but surely, _surely_ Zarbon was exaggerating. Was it possible that she could travel half way across a universe apparently swimming with life only to run smack bang into a ship full of merciless murderers, the boss of whom made every evil Earth dictator look like Ghandi?

Lost in her thoughts Bulma didn't notice Zarbon addressing her, or indeed that they had reached their destination, until he turned to leave.

"Wait," she called, anxious not to lose an apparent ally in this sea of the unknown. "Where am I?"

"As I've just told you," he replied, the irritation clear in his voice. "This will be your quarters for the duration of your stay. There is no locking mechanism but considering you have been labeled the sole property of Frieza you should be left alone and unharmed. By all but him, that is."

"Excuse me?!," Bulma screeched "_Property_?! I'm no one's _property_! I'm a human being."

"This is exactly what makes you property. You have no strength, no standing, no rank. As far as Frieza or most of the beings onboard are concerned you're no better than dirt."

"Is that how _you_ think of me?" she asked, thrown slightly off-tilt.

"You're an ugly, weak, useless alien female. How else am I supposed to think of you?"

"Then why did you tell me all that stuff? Why'd you help me?"

"Because I've no desire to see any creature, even one as pathetic as yourself, suffer unduly. Now you know where you are, now you _understand,_ perhaps you'll think twice before fighting. Perhaps you'll realize that sometimes in order to win you have to appear to lose. Maybe you'll understand that sometimes the price of arrogance, pride, even honour is simply too great."

"I will never give in," she replied, ever defiant and arrogant. "I will never surrender. I will never lose hope. And I will _never_ be broken."

"Yes," he said, meeting her eye. "You will. But it's up to you how just how much. And, believe me, if you choose to fight it'll not be just your freedom but your soul."

"You don't know me!" she screeched.

"Yes, I do. I've seen you a million times over. I've _been_ you. In the end, you'll end up just like the rest of us. Everyone does. You can't fight the inevitable."

"B-but-"

"One last thing," he added, ignoring her stuttered comeback and turning to leave. "Don't even try to remove that bracelet on your arm unless you want to be attacked, raped and worse by a multitude of very sadistic, very horny men."

"What bracelet?" Bulma yelled at his retreating form, her eyes drawn to the ornate silver armlet cuffed to her wrist. Tracing the alien symbols carved upon it she silently fumed. Property of Frieza and marked accordingly… She didn't think so. Bulma Briefs belonged to no man, alien or otherwise.

"First thing's first," she muttered to herself, walking into her new room and, unwittingly, her new life.  "How do I get this damn thing off?"

"I can help you with that," an all-to-familiar voice snickered viciously.

Bulma froze. Standing on the other side of her room, sadistic smirk in place, was her tormentor.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, attempting anger and failing. "How dare you invade my privacy after what you did? I should kill you where you stand. Who do you think you are, anyway?"

"And Zarbon thought that punch knocked all the fight from you!" he declared, completely ignoring her questions. "The moment I laid eyes on you I knew you'd fight me tooth and nail all the way. And all that bravado against what you surely must realize to be unwavering odds; how precious!"

"How dare you presume to patronize and treat me this way? Surely I have some sort of diplomatic immunity that prevents me from enduring anymore of your revolting attempts at hostility. I am Bulma Briefs, for god sake! Do you have any idea what that _means_?!"

"I know exactly what it means. You, my dear, are the one resolutely clueless."

"S-So… wait…"  Bulma stuttered, more confused than ever. "You know who I am? Is that why you're here? To apologize for earlier. Because if it is I hardly think I can forgive you. You knocked me out cold and were unbelievably rude. And I mean, come on, I-"

Frieza's cold laughter silenced her train of thought. She had time to realize how unbelievably naive she'd been before her thoughts were verbalized.

"Stupid woman!" he laughed, phasing, like a demon, from the other side of the room and slamming her body into a wall. "You _still_ don't get it. Perhaps it's time I show you _exactly_ how much all your wealth and standing means."

Before Bulma could blink her inert form was flung across the room, pinned painfully to the bed by the sadistically grinning demon that lorded over her. The towel had disappeared. His slimy purple tongue darted out, slithering like some nightmarish insect across her cheek. She gagged, fighting back the rising bile. Mustering all her strength she thrashed violently against her captor, trying desperately to break free from his vice-like grip. Frieza snickered, mocking her failed attempts. His roving hands pawed her violently, mercilessly attacking every inch of her skin. She gasped in pain as his sharp nails raked down her sides, drawing blood. Overpowered by a mixture of fury, fear and disgust Bulma threw her head back and spat in the monster's face. Frieza's features contorted with rage and he slapped her. Squinting through blurred vision and on the edge of losing consciousness Bulma was pulled callously back to reality as Frieza yanked her long aqua locks. Her back arched involuntarily and he bit down on her nipple with sadistic relish. Her tortured screams of pain chilled and thrilled all who occupied the nearby halls. Lapping the pooled blood Frieza appeared the very image of the devil himself, freed the depths of hell and ravishing the universe with sadistic malice. His maw, stained ruby red, grinned up at her and her fury at his arrogance reawakened. Hissing and spitting like a caged wildcat, Bulma thrashed beneath his chiseled form, surprising even Frieza with the strength of anger. An escaped limb, anxious to repay the favor, struck his most private part with full force. Frieza breath hitched.

"That hurt, whore!" he spat, pinning her down with the full force of his weight. Bulma raised her fist to strike him but he caught it effortlessly, grinding together the delicate bones in his deadly grasp. She whimpered in pain.

"It's obvious I've been too gentle with you. I'll not make the same mistake twice."

In one fluid moment he threw her onto her stomach, entering her roughly from behind. She gasped in a mixture of pain, fear and sorrow. Tears began to fall, unbridled, as he pounded into her. Her nails sunk into the bedspread, now stained with her maidenhood. Tiny drops of blood flew from her mouth as she bit fiercely down on her tongue, urging with every inch of herself not to give him the satisfaction of a scream. It was all she could do not to die from the pain ripping her in two. He had taken so much, more than anyone had any right to. She couldn't let him have her dignity as well. She wouldn't.

"You're pathetic!" she whispered, chocking back everything but the biting hate she felt wheeling inside like a bottomless ravine. "R-raping a woman who c-c-can't stand against you even if she t-tried. Using the… the strength you did not e-earn or d-deserve to commit the most… the most cowardly atrocity that exists. There's no power in that. There's nothing but… but the actions of a w-weak and p-pitiful loser. You may be strong physically but inside… inside you're as weak as a mewling infant."

The movement above her stopped and Bulma was thrown against the wall like a wet rag, instantly losing consciousness. Snarling viciously Frieza returned her limb body and continued his now furious ministrations in a delirious haze of clawing, biting and thrusting.

Three hours later Bulma's battered, barely living form was dragged to the tanks.

Even the most war hardened soldiers shuddered at the sight.


	4. Chapter 3: Conspiracy

**IMPORTANT A/N – **It would be lovely to know someone is actually coherently reading this story so a few more reviews would be nice. It will certainly help the next chapter out a lot quicker.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Dragonball I wouldn't sell movie rights that would end up producing a timid and frail Goku, a brown haired Bulma, a non-existent Krillan and a Vegeta too terrifyingly wrong to even imagine.

**Survival**

**Chapter 3: Conspiracy**

_By Ariel_

By the time Bulma's damaged body finally recovered enough for her to awaken a full week had passed. Drifting in the familiar aqua fluid, her entire bulk a seething mass of aching flesh and seeping welts, she wept silently.

He had shown her, alright. Shown her exactly how worthless, useless and weak she was. Shown her that, for all her gruff words and courageous façade, she was just a powerless insect; one filled with dangerous ideas to be swiftly squished.

She had _tried_ to fight. Tooth and nail, just like he'd said. But it had been as useless and pointless as trying to shield yourself from meteors with a frayed umbrella. He'd just laughed at her attempts, ever mocking, and continued his barrage. The constant snigger, eroding the atmosphere with his contemptuous, arrogant and savage emotion, had filled her with disgust to the point of sickness. Never had she felt such violent, damaging disgust.

The way he violated her, damaged, _destroyed_ her… It was beyond mere pain and degradation. It was evil embodied. _He_ was evil embodied. And yet for all his vile ways it remained inconsequential to the fact that, for the first time in her life, there was nothing she could do.

No longer could she rely on the heroic protection of others. There was no courageous jungle boy to come to her rescue, no dashing desert prince. Just herself, her captor and a million hateful and vicious faces swimming in a sea of shadows, waiting fitfully to wrench her from her life and lavish in the metallic taste of her blood.

Bulma was forced to face the fact that she was, perhaps for the rest of her life, unequivocally alone.

And suddenly everything took on an ever darker tone.

Before her, the liquid crystal display flashed her vitals. She still had a little over five hours healing time in the tank. A groan escaped her. Five immobile, inane hours with nothing to occupy her thoughts but the savage beating and rape that she wanted so desperately to forget.

Then again, perhaps there were others things to consider, more comforting thoughts.

Like revenge.

Frieza's confidence in her inevitable submittal had been a false one. He had indeed bested her, as he had thoroughly and brutally intended, but only in the physical arena. And while he could pillage and plunder her body for a million years in a thousand different and more horrifying ways she would never allow him access to her mind. And that, as the people of Earth were well aware, was where the entirety of Bulma Brief's true power dwelt.

A ferocious glint in her eye, Bulma made a heart-felt vow to God that the sadistic beast would meet his demise at her hands. Should it take forever she would have her revenge. And God, overcome by the intensity of her passion, shuddered in her wake.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

On a small planet in a distant solar system Vegeta awoke in a cold sweat.

The wheels of fate began to turn.

Hours later, only minutes from her eminent ejection, Bulma was torn from her schemes by a familiar blue countenance. Frowning, she averted her gaze and awaited release.

As it so happened she had not spent much of her precious tank time, perhaps the only moments she would be spared from Frieza's rancorous attentions, brooding. Instead she'd reverted to the impartial and indifferent scientist, her genius mind working frantically through a thousand calculated scenarios that would see Frieza's icy blood flow. It had seemed undeniably impossible, every silly idea and idiotic plan, until the answer, immensely flawed but nonetheless perfect, presented itself.

Now with Zarbon's arrival the plot that rode on a thousand miniscule option and assumptions commenced.

The fluid drained in a mechanical whirl and she pulled the mask from her face, stepping from the tank with no thought to modesty. A lot could change in the space of a week.

Silent and morose, Zarbon once again ushered her beneath familiar faucets. She barely flinched as the chilling water surged over her. There were more important things at hand.

"So… now you understand."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Bulma replied. "May I discuss something with you?"

"Woman, I've no desire to hear about your aching body, heart or soul. I've heard it all before and I'm quite uninterested in listening to it again. Whatever compassion I once possessed was lost many years ago."

"Actually it's nothing like that," Bulma mumbled. "I have a proposition for you."

"Then out with it. I've more important things to do than listen to your foolish, weakling _propositions_."

"Yes well that's just it. It seems you people are unaware that to judge someone by mere strength alone is not always the wisest course of action."

"Well of course you'd say that. Your power level is less than that of an infant!"

"And yet I have strength far beyond that of any physical prowess."

"Woman, if you insist on barraging me with fanciful imaginings then I'll leave you to wander the halls of this ship full of violent rapists and murderers alone."

"What I want to talk to you about," Bulma urged, careful to articulate every word. "Is something _very_ _personal_. But I'm not sure this room is private enough to discuss this _very_ _personal_ thing. Is there anywhere we could talk where no one would overhear our _very_ _personal_ discussion?"

Zarbon tilted his head and stared at her, utterly perplexed.

"Woman, are you serious?"

Abandoning all pretence Bulma took his hands within her own, desperate to portray her intent through sheer force of will.

"_Dead _serious."

She held her breath and awaited his response.

"Alright," he muttered, tearing his hands from hers and averting his gaze. "My room is just around the corner. We can talk there. But make it quick, Frieza is expecting you before the night's out."

Bulma moaned inwardly at his careless revelation and they walked to his quarters in silence.

In a dark room, enveloped in monitors that glowed like the sinister gaze of a thousand-eyed beast, a hideous face cracked an even more hideous smile.

"What _are_ you up to, Zarbon?"

"You must be insane, woman. Do you have any idea what could happen to you, what _would_ happen to _us_, if they knew we were even discussing this? Surely you of all people can understand what he's capable of?!"

"Yes I do. And that's precisely why he's left me no choice. We have to do this."

"_We_? Woman, you can count me out of this. Such actions are folly."

"I don't think you completely understand what I'm saying. I'm not just smart, I'm a genius. I can produce technology _in my sleep _the likes of which you've never even dreamt of. I can give you things that will make you faster, stronger and better than ever before. Within a year you'll be able to string him up without even breaking a sweat."

"No, it's you who doesn't understand. I can't kill Frieza. I won't _ever_ be able to. Have you any idea just how strong he is?! And he's not even in his most powerful form! There are rumors that fully transformed his power level tops 1 million. At my strongest I can reach 30 thousand, perhaps 35. Compared to him I'm nothing. You're plan is naught but a fools errand. No one is strong enough to defeat him. No one ever will be."

"You're wrong," she vehemently contested. "I know I can do it. I know _we _can do. Don't you get it? We'd not just be killing a tyrant; we'd be saving the universe. We'd be heroes."

"I've no desire to be a hero. I just want to stay alive. It may not be much, but it's all I have."

"To merely survive under these horrendous terms, is it really worth it? You yourself said that the only blessing to be had here is death. Should we fail what greater death than to die fighting for what's right?"

"And what then? Can I really expect to receive a hero's welcome to the afterlife after all I've done? I'm not conceited enough to believe one good deed makes up for a lifetime of sin. Any horror faced here is insurmountable to what awaits."

"But… shouldn't… shouldn't you at least try?" Bulma stammered, thrown by his comments. "No one lives forever, Zarbon. This may be your last chance. Your last shot at salvation. If you're that terrified of what awaits, shouldn't you at least give it a go? For your sake? For the sake of your soul? For your loved ones who await you?"

"No one awaits me."

"I don't believe you."

"Well, you should woman. Someone who's done what I've done, committed such atrocities and horrors… Someone like that doesn't deserve love. The only thing that waits for me is a burning flame of eternal pain and suffering ready to engulf me in entirety. Such are the gifts of a life spent serving Frieza."

Frustrated, angry, miserable tears fell down Bulma's cheeks. She struck the desk, breaking her wrist with the intensity of her emotion.

"Someone like you doesn't deserve saving! Refusing to even _attempt_ to do what's right. Why did I even bother?! Obviously, I was just projecting my own illusions onto you. You're nothing but a coward and a weak fool. I'm sorry I thought I saw otherwise."

Staring at the ground, unwilling to meet her accusing gaze, Zarbon frowned.

"… So am I," he whispered, too soft for her to hear.

"Hurry up and take me to Frieza," Bulma seethed, her face flushed red in anger and pain. "At least he isn't afraid to face his own shadow!"

"As you wish…" he said, leading Bulma down the monotonous steel halls to where her tormentor awaited.

Reaching the familiar dark entryway a violent chill ran down her spine. Steeling herself Bulma grabbed the handle and thrust the door open, storming into the room with all the bravado she could master. Zarbon balked at her confidence before scurrying off.

Lounging on the bed the monster grinned, his ferocious teeth glinting sadistically in the pale star light.

"So we meet again."

Bulma stalked up to the foot of the oversized bed, her head held high like a proud dignitary. Waves of arrogance and superiority radiated off her small form and Frieza's confident smirk wavered in her wake.

"I may be powerless against you Frieza but, mark my words, I will have my revenge."

And she spat savagely at his feet.

In a flurried haze of torn clothes and furious intent Bulma was pinned, now naked and bruised, beneath her captor's heaving form. His reptilian tongue snaked across her cheekbone, his wicked red eyes glowing in malicious fury.

"You're nothing but a frail and wretched toy I choose to keep around for my own amusement. Nothing you do can harm me. How do you intend of attaining this vengeance? Talking me to death?"

His hollow laughter did nothing to sway her. Renewed by a sense of purpose and imbued by the power of her dark design Bulma's mind was now fortified; an unreachable, unattainable fortress of steel will. She still feared him but she was no longer owned by that fear. And any real power he had over her was lost.

Her mocking laughter, menacingly melodious in its terrible wrongness, did not go ignored.

Snarling like a rabid dog, he pummeled all laugher and consciousness from her.

Her head lolling lifelessly off the bed, Frieza had his way, over and over, with her insentient form.

And once again, naught more than a bag of brutalized flesh, an unrecognizable Bulma was dragged to the tanks.

Life continued that way for months. To Bulma, who remained conscious and aware barely once a week, it still seemed closer to years. Years that, despite her previous rock-solid confidence, were slowly eroding her.

The thought that kept scratching at the back of her mind, the unwelcome notion she did everything to ignore and discredit, was becoming increasing more riotous. Because she still couldn't find a co-conspirator to bring about the demise of the dark devil. And without one all was moot.

Zarbon had made it very clear he wasn't willing. Though he always received Bulma from the tank they hadn't spoken a word since their fight in his quarters. After that furious confrontation she had abandoned all hope of persuading him. He was simply too weak, too cowardly and too set in his ways to challenge the man whom had forgiven his sins and offered him a place where there was no judgment to be found. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that Frieza had been responsible for tainting his soul in the first place.

But, without Zarbon, her plan took on an almost impossible to bear weight.

At her luckiest she'd be granted a single day of conscious tank time before she was dragged off to her tormentor's sinister abode. She could think, plan, scheme but she couldn't network. Floating silently in the thick healing fluid she'd eye the brawny warriors stalking passed her unable to do anything but stare longingly at their retreating forms.

She had been thrilled almost to tears when a passing soldier, eyeing her heavenly floating form, had made a move to release her. Her excitement had been palpable as his fingers flew across the tank's control panel in his eagerness, his eyes scanning hungrily over her form. And then he had noticed her bracelet. Blanching, his deep purple skin waning to a sickly pink, he scurried off with his literal tail between his craven legs.

And that had been it. Her only tangible contact with anyone other than Zarbon or Frieza. Twice, when left alone in Frieza's quarters to await her inevitable midnight trysts, she'd managed to escape in the hopes of finding a suitable collaborator only to run smack bang into Zarbon who promptly returned her. After her second attempt Zarbon was placed outside her door to prevent her escape until the rapist arrived. He was like her nurse maid. A sadistic nurse maid who cared little for its charge's wellbeing. Every waking moment he would follow her around, never letting her out of his site, never allowing her even the slightest freedom. This made her plan, and her life, all the more difficult. She had a nagging suspicion that the reason for his constant company had something to do with her mutinous proposition. Perhaps he had told Frieza everything. And now, armed with the knowledge she'd thought taken for granted, he wasn't letting her out of his sight.

Sitting in Frieza's room before the giant wall window her only apparent duty was to anxiously await the inevitable.

She grunted, casually tracing childish words onto the cool glass as she stared at the heavenly beings twinkling strikingly in the blanket of space. There had to be a way out of this. Had to. She couldn't let Frieza and his Pretty Pet Prince outsmart her. She had to think. She had to-

Bounding from the floor Bulma sprinted to the room's locking mechanism, grabbing several intergalactic bauds and trinkets on the way.

"I can't hurt him, huh? We'll see about that."

Her savage grin twinkled menacingly in the heavy shadows.

Countless hours later Bulma reclined on the lavish bedspread, trying her best to remain nonchalant as the steel door slid open.

"Well, what have we here?" Frieza rasped, the ghost of a smirk gracing his features. "Submission at last. I must say I was beginning to think such a thing impossible."

"Well as they say," Bulma purred, crawling seductively closer to his static form in silent invitation. "If you can't beat them… join them."

"Indeed," Frieza muttered, his trepidation clear. His devilish eyes scanned her scantily clad form but it was hardly the simply attentions of a lusty admirer. He was searching… And he knew! A part of him had understood the second he entered the room that his prey was no longer defenseless. And he wasn't coming any closer until he understood precisely what she was planning.

But Bulma refused to give up. No longer could she continue this diabolically defeating life and do nothing. Come head or high water she would be triumphant.

Raising herself to his eye level, a fake smirk in place, Bulma began to undress in agonizingly slow movements. Her small hands slid erotically over her luscious curves as she pulled the sheer night dress over her head. Shaking out her long, aqua locks she pouted, every inch the smoldering sex goddess. She fingered the delicate material of her aqua bra, her forefinger running enticingly down the incline of her breast. With a cheeky snap it fell open, her creamy mounds bouncing out in all their exquisite glory. She liked her lips, her eyes remaining glued to him as her right hand encircled her breast. She pinched her erect nipple, moaning deliciously as she massaged the ripe mound, slowly pleasuring herself.

Abandoning all apprehension Frieza shuffled forward, mesmerized by her devious dance of seduction. His eyes remained glued, unable to think of anything but the delectable deity slowly satisfying herself. She moaned louder, one hand trailing enticingly downward.

_Just a littler closer. Just a little-_        

BANG!

The violent explosion ripped through the room, dissolving the opposite wall in an eruption of smoke, ash and twisted metal. Bulma grinned in savage victory, the make-shift cannon nuzzling comfortably between her thighs like some malicious lover. Overcome by foolish lust Frieza had failed to notice the deadly device hidden beneath the cool silk sheets until it was too late. And now, she was free. _Everyone _was free. And she was a hero. She was a-

Bulma's victory was short lived. Her face blanched when the clammy hands of her contemptuous captor snaked from the clearing dust and wrapped themselves around her delicate neck.

"I should snap you in half!" he snarled, the whites of his eyes turned crimson in the wake of his bottomless rage. "Or let my men rape you to death. Either one would be more than a fucking disgusting whore such as you deserves."

Bulma took time to notice the 'invincible' leader had several cuts and bruises scattering his cool carcass, along with a significant chuck missing from his right calf. His shattered composure and damaged form filled her with ruthless pleasure. She grinned maliciously.

His choke hold tightened, merciless anger radiating off him in black waves.

"BITCH!!" he spat, throwing her body to ground and ruthlessly attacking her in a frantic haze of bloodied limbs and broken bones.

He would have killed her had Zarbon, only seconds before the point of no return, not made himself known.

The blue skinned beauty cleared his throat loudly.

"Sire, begging your pardon," he muttered. "But I think it a good idea to leave this place and find a private and secure place to heal before word gets out of the explosion and every man on the ship arrives to see for themselves what happened here."

Frieza turned on his second command, snarling like a savage animal as he slammed him against the wall.

"And _what_ exactly do you think happened here?" he hissed, still a hostage to the rage that consumed his being.

"W-well, S-s-sire," Zarbon stuttered, not for the first terrified of his crazed Master. "I-I… I-It… I mean, o-obviously, you just exerted yourself a little t-too much playing with your new toy. U-understandable reaction, of c-course."

Taking a deep breath Frieza lowered Zarbon's captive form, his sharp anger evaporating.

"Yes you're quite right Zarbon," he answered, reverted to his cool and collected glory. "I indeed exerted myself a little too much. I think I'll depart to my private tank before someone other than you arrives and gets the wrong idea."

"Yes, sire. A fine idea."

Frieza stalked arrogantly out the gaping hole, once a wall, spitefully adding:

"And take her to be healed. She's not getting away from me that easily. She shall have to punished for her contempt!"

The sadistic promise in his words sent a cool chill down Zarbon's spine.

He gingerly gathered her inert form in his broad arms, a genuine smile inadvertently transforming his cool features to something softer, kinder and unquestionably beautiful.

"You truly are amazing…"

Bulma's insides had been ground to pulverized tatters. She had been naught but an unrecognizable blob of ugly purple bruises, deep cuts and a seemingly endless river of crimson life blood. Zarbon had speed down the listless corridors, barely a blip on the radar, fazing past gawking soldiers faster than the blink of an eye. And still it had almost been too late. Due to the extensive nature of her injuries preparatory surgery had been required before tank time. With the delicate moves of an over-protective parent he placed her small body on the operating tables. The arrogant lab surgeons barely fluttered an eyelid as they chattering mindlessly about themselves and the benefits of their own trumped up position. The injured blue haired whore, so insignificant in the wake of their self proclaimed importance, simply didn't registered. Zarbon had scowled, his darker side coming to the fore. Interrupting their gratuitous conversation he had grabbed an emerald skinned surgeon by the collar and shook him violently.

"I have a woman here who needs urgent attention," he'd snarled. "So why don't you shut your fool mouths and do your job."

The colour drained from their faces as they were instantly humbled and shamed by the second strongest man in the fleet. Dropping all pretence they'd shuffled over to the injured woman lying prone. Ten minutes later, the tiny particles of bone piercing several of her vital organs removed, she'd been placed in the tank for her most extensive healing session.

A week and several operations later she was still showing little outward signs of recovery. Floating like a corpse the whole left side of her face remained a terrible cacophony of ugly scar tissue. A huge puckered wound marred her entire left side, running from the rise of her breast to her jutting hip bone. The rest of her torso and face was a cruel assortment of purple, yellow and brown bruises. Internally, though, she was nearing recovery. And that was a start.

"Crocus, over here," Zarbon beckoned. After a spat within his own tank Frieza had demanded Zarbon stay by the woman's side. He didn't want his little toy getting out of her punishment that easily. Feigning irritation and feeling relief, Zarbon had complied. But with little to occupy his time but her torturously slow progress he had eventually succumbed to mindless chatter of his own.

"What is it, Zarbon?" Crocus asked softly. Shortly after Bulma's first operation Zarbon had been introduced to the purple skinned humanoid alien. A galaxy class surgeon and all around nice guy it had become almost immediately apparent that this being, his eyes large green pools of endless wisdom and un-contemplatable sorrow, was mercifully absent of the pride and arrogance plaguing his colleagues. He had shook Zarbon's hand, his small hand rough and calloused from years of hard work, and muttered: "I'll be in charge of this case now. She'll be fine."

So far, he'd been true to him word.

"What's her condition?" Zarbon muttered, eyeing her form and frowning.

"It's looking up. At the start it was touch and go. She was too inherently weak to have healed from such immense trauma. Every sign pointed to heart simply stopping. But it didn't. Despite her obvious weakness this woman has the strongest will I've ever seen. She simply wouldn't _let_ herself die. And, as far as I can see, that's the sole reason she'd didn't. It's quite amazing really. The read outs say her internal injuries are all but healed. Once I'm convinced there's nothing left to fix on the inside we'll focus on her external issues. By tomorrow or the next I should be able to revert the tank and get to work on those nasty scars."

"So she'll be fully healed."

"Well, yes… and no. As you know I was forced to reconfigure the tank due to her extensive injuries to give her a fighting chance. Now, considering the age of her external injuries, it's doubtful they'll all be fully healed."

"… Will she'll be terribly marred?" Zarbon questioned, feeling an unwelcome and unfamiliar pang within his heart.

"Oh no! Her face should be fine. The bruising there looks a lot worse than it is. Most of the cuts were shallow and, as such, are easily healed. Tank technology has come a long way. However that gash on her side… It's so deep and brutal it's unlikely the skin there will ever completely recover. It will fade but she'll have that scar for the rest of her life."

"But apart from that…" Zarbon trailed off.

"Apart from that, she'll be good as new. Until he gets his hands on her again that is."

They both nodded solemnly, turning to watch the floating fallen angel who lay completely oblivious of the horror that surrounded her.

"Someone needs to stop him," Crocus muttered. Zarbon felt none of the shock or anger he should have but was instead overcome by vast respect for the solemn surgeon. To even think rebellious thoughts earned a death sentence yet he had outwardly contemplated Frieza's death as though discussing the weather. Such cosmic courage Zarbon admired deeply.

And though he said nothing, the repressing result of a lifetime's cruel and vicious beatings, he silently agreed.

Frieza did need to be stopped. And soon.

Without realizing it, he was pushed across a threshold he thought never to traverse.

Five days later Bulma woke.

Her eyelids fluttered open and burning memories accosted her. The damaged flesh crawled and pulsed like a living thing; a mass of sharp, throbbing pain. Every inch of her itched, ached and stung. She understood, in a vague and far off way, that she had very nearly died. Surprisingly, the thought filled her with little comfort.

She had been so stupid, so conceited and sure, in her arrogance and idiocy, that her foolish toy would mean Frieza's demise. But small scratches and cuts, even a gaping leg wound, couldn't be considered any real victory. She was playing against the devil. And he played for keeps.

She mentally barraged herself. Zarbon had been right. Frieza was so strong, stronger than any one being should be, and maybe there really was nothing she could do.

Her dejected gaze flickered to the foot of the tank and her self-pitying thoughts ceased. Laying there, his normally flawless emerald hair spilling unkempt around his face, his uniform scruffy and soiled, Zarbon lay sleeping.

Bulma's breath caught in her throat. For one moment, staring at his rumpled form, a worried scowl on his face, she indulged the fact that, despite his apparent indifference, he actually cared. Then reality struck her, hard and fast. He was just her body guard. And her nurse maid. Nothing more. He had made it clear on more than one occasion that he despised her and his position. He was here because of Frieza.

Bulma sighed. Was there really no one in this wide world who would help her?  Left out in the cold, like an abandoned kitten in a world full of pit bulls, no hero in sight, what was a girl to do? She was swiftly losing options. Perhaps she'd never really had any to begin with. Was it time to simply admit defeat and give in?

Tears fell, unbidden and relentless.

Zarbon was torn from sleep by a dull aching in his chest. He raised his head, inspecting his ward's progress. Watching her tears fall, silent and desperate, wrenched his soul. He raised a gloved hand, delicately tracing the outline of her broken features, and mouthed:

"I'm sorry."

The tinkle of tears turned into a flood and Zarbon was worried he'd said the wrong thing until she flashed him a genuine, heart-felt smile. Her first since entering Frieza's service. His wrenched features spelled her future and it was once more beautiful.

Unbeknownst to himself, Zarbon smiled back.  

That stayed that way for an hour.

Bulma fell asleep, crying with joy for hope, so close to death, renewed.

Two days later, fifteen minutes from expulsion, Bulma woke again. She locked eyes with Zarbon and a silent understanding passed between them. Delight overwhelmed her.

When she stepped from the tank he wrapped her in a towel with the care of a man handling a precious jewel. He did not, as usual, usher her towards the shower. Instead, encompassing her tiny hand within his own, he pulled her down the hall towards his quarters. Not a word passed between them until he shut the door.

"I'm sorry for dragging you here wet and sticky," he mumbled, his head bowed as he secured the door closed. "It's just; I thought your might like a real shower. Not one where you're exposed to everyone who cares to look. The bathroom is that door over to the right. Take as much time as you like."

Head still bowed, he walked in the direction of his kitchenette. Bulma grabbed his wrist, halting his departure.

"Wait! I still not sure exactly what's going on here. Why are you being so kind? I want to believe I know but I just can't get my hopes up again. I don't think I could handle the rejection this time. I really don't."

Zarbon took a deep breath, raising his head to stare into the eyes of the woman whom had proven to hold a power beyond contemplation.

"I practiced what I'd say to you. I must have come up with a hundred different scenarios, different things I wanted to say, different ideas I needed to portray. It all disappeared the second you stepped out of that tank. I'm trying, so _desperately_, to get these thoughts in order. But it's hard and… and, you were right, because I am a coward. I need more time. So, please, go have a shower and give me it. When you get out I promise, on my life, that I'll put in to words these feelings I'm only beginning to understand."

Taking both his hands within her own Bulma stood up on her tip toes and lightly kissed his cheek.

Pulling back she muttered:

"You better," and departed into the bathroom.

Zarbon let out the breath he'd been holding and went to pour the night cap he so desperately needed.

The large bathroom was equipped with both a giant glass shower and a huge, pool like bath. Taking the swifter route she stepped onto the crimson marble of the shower floor, turning the taps and closing her eyes as peace engulfed her.

The warm water cascading down her tender muscles soothed her. She sighed in ecstasy. Never would she have imagined that the simple act of showering could offer such divine delight. Each drop took with it a separate worry, fear and doubt until she was once again immaculate; imbued with nothing but a cleansed soul and pure mind. Such was the simple miracle of unsoiled skin.

For the first time in a long time she grinned simply for the sake of it.

Losing herself in the shower's tranquil charm she was unaware of time, space or anything but the smooth, exquisite feel of the water running its healing hands over her naked form. It was her lover, she it's willing slave.

Almost an hour passed before a tentative knock at the door jarred her from the private world she'd created.

"Woman, are you alright?"

Bulma rolled her eyes, begrudgingly turning the shower off and stepping out. Her body cried in agony from the separation of the curative cascade. A part of her wanted to stay there forever, washed away in a sea of peace where nothing hurt, nothing was lost and nothing except the most primal of experiences mattered. That part was silenced. She was so close to revenge she couldn't all most taste it and nothing, _nothing_, was going to stand in her way.

"Yes, I'll only be a moment. And its Bulma, not _woman_!" she replied, begrudgingly.

She peeked in the mirror, the sight of her reflection jarring her to a standstill. She'd not realized the damage months of malnutrition and abuse had done. The dark bags beneath her eyes conflicted harshly with her too pale countenance. Her face looked like some nightmarish skull. Her luscious curves, once so prized and adored, had all but vanished to be replaced by bones that jutted awkwardly from her skin. The radiance and shine from her once beautiful locks was gone. And, to top it off, an ugly puckered scar ran down her entire left side, marring her skin inexcusable.

In a word, she looked like hell.

She turned away. If anything this only strengthened her resolve. Someone had to be held accountable for the damage heaped upon her and countless others. Someone had to pay.

She looked around for a towel, spotting two against the wall, hanging inconveniently from the ceiling. She pulled them down, wrapping her body and hair in the silky material.

Bulma exited the room, a scowl on her face.

Zarbon took one look at her and grinned despite himself.

Her scowl deepened.

"What's exactly is so funny, mister?"

"Do you realize," he said, trying and failing to keep the humor from his voice. "That you're wearing the curtains?"

"Excuse me?" Bulma muttered, eyeing her blue-skinned companion. "Curtains?"

"Yes," he muttered, grabbing her immobile form and dragging her back to the bathroom.

"This," he said, pointing to a cupboard off to the side of the shower. "Is the Insta-Tech dryer. Just jump in, press the big red button and in 5.6 seconds you're dry from head to toe."

"So… this isn't a towel," Bulma picked at the crimson sheet draping her naked form.

"No."

"But there's no window…"

"There is. It's just no on."

"Not… on?"

"No, it's veiled by an electrometric shield that can block the view if you change the setting. I've had it turned off since I took this room."

"So… hang on. Does every room have one of these?"

"Most have several."

"And if you have it turned on what's on the other side?"

"The hallway.""

"The hallway?!"

"Yes."

"And can the people in the hallway see inside?"

"Only if it's turned on?"

"But… hang on…" Bulma muttered, utterly baffled. "Why would anyone want to shower with the window open for the whole world to see?"

"I suppose for the same reason the soldiers find it funny to rape harem whores to death… or beat mothers with the limbs of their children… or eat the flesh of their victims."

"T-they… they _do that_?" Bulma stuttered, horrified.

"Yes," Zarbon bluntly responded.

"Do… Do you?"

"I don't pretend to be perfect, woman. But no, I've never participated in such things."

"I told you to call me Bulma." she whispered without conviction.

He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look him in the eye.

"I will if you'll hear me out."

Bulma looked to the floor.

"Let me dry myself off. Then we'll talk."

"Deal," he agreed, handing her a small paper package he'd been holding. "I got you some clean clothes. They're nothing much but it's all I could do."

She took it from him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it briefly.

"Thanks."

And he left.

She stepped into the 'dryer', pressed the red button and was accosted by a frantic gale. She barely had time to register the intense feeling before it was removed. 'Complete' the machine stated with robotic coldness. She fingered her hair. Completely dry. Ah, the wonders of the mechanical era!

Stepping out of the claustrophobic cupboard, glad it had only lasted as long as it did; she opened the small brown package. A pair of plain white panties and a loud orange dress that suffocated her in a sea of material but was still indecently low. It wasn't perfect but, considering the only alternative was air, it would have to do.

This time, she didn't bother with the mirror.

She stepped out.

Zarbon's smug smirk was still set firmly in place.

"What is it this time?" she grumbled. "Don't tell me that I'm accidentally wearing your toilet paper."

"No, wom-No Bulma. It's just…"

"Just what?"    

Her question met only silence.

"Come on, out with it!" she seethed.

"You look ridiculous."

Bulma scowled, falling face down onto the couch.

"Tell me something I don't know," she muttered through a mouthful of leather.

"Well, I don't think I've ever seen such an ugly outfit."

Bulma looked up, frowning.

"That wasn't a literal request, you know?"

"Pardon?"

Her head fell back into the sofa.

"… Never mind."

"Anyway there are things we need to discuss. To be specific: your proposition."

She was on her feet in a second, her demeanor suddenly seriousness.

"What about it?" she asked breathlessly.

"Originally I thought you were nothing but talk. Many people come here sprouting nonsense about overthrowing Frieza. They build up their own merits to get people on side only to fail miserably when it turns out that their strength or intelligence or sometimes simply their endurance is nothing like they claimed. Then they're punished for their mutinous ways. And, without fail, they drag every singly person who thought to help down into the seething pit of their lies. When I first met you I was sure you were like that. You had no reputation, no strength and were sprouting claims that seemed unlikely at best. It seemed to me that within a week, maybe two, you'd be yet another broken, brutalized whore who'd sell her soul for a cigarette. But I was wrong. I watched you suffer continuously and lose nothing of that spark or fire that seems to consume your very being. And I began to wonder. When I walked in on you and he that day, when I saw the damage you'd done, something changed within me. Something I'd thought long dead sparked back to life. With one action you've single handedly reignited my hope. Suddenly it seemed that maybe, with your help, I really could beat him. _We_ _really could **beat him**_. The idea which had for so long seemed impossible suddenly took on new dimensions becoming not just plausible but possible. Did you know that he had to take two days off to heal? Two whole days where not one single person on the fleet heard word of him. Because of you. You, a woman with a power level lower than a gnat, damaged a seemingly impenetrable warrior! And, if that wasn't enough, he transformed. When he finally showed up he was in a different from. So threatened was he by you, _you_, that he felt the need to become stronger.

We could really do this. You and me. And all this pain, all the terrible things he's done, it would end.

I feel like I've finally woken from a dream. A dream where I was alive but not living. I walked around like a witless Zombie, taking orders, doing abhorrent things and completely oblivious to all the pain and anguish surrounding me. And then you came. And I awoke. Suddenly everything is so much clearer, so much more real. Because you were right, this has to end. And who better than you and I, those who've felt the full force of Frieza's evil, to end it."

"So, you're in? You'll help me?" she whispered in breathless anticipation.

"Bulma, it would be an honour."


End file.
